


from bitter dirt rise asphodels

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Post-Finale, TMA is a tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: What's left behind, after the end.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	from bitter dirt rise asphodels

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to interropunct, cuttooth, zalia and PersonificationOfHubris for offering their thoughts on this!
> 
> Title from החיטה צומחת שוב/the wheat grows again, by Dorit Tsameret.

A fleck of green catches Martin's eye as he walks into the kitchen to shove another frozen pizza in the oven. He wanders away from his well-trodden path to the window, where he'd put the seeds Georgie had brought him over a bed of wet cotton wool. She had them in a packet, carefully labeled, but Martin can't remember now what kind they are.

The new leaves peeking just above the bed give no hint as to their identity. "Well, hello," Martin whispers, charmed despite himself.

* * *

The seedlings grow. There are six of them, and five survive long enough to be potted. Martin still isn't sure which type of plant they are: some sort of herb, he thinks, but he was never much for cooking. It doesn't matter. They're green, and growing, and they make something in Martin expand, too, like lungs drawing fresh air.

That's how he knows he has to take them,

Not all of them. Just one, the biggest, most vibrant one. Martin tells himself it has the best odds of surviving. He carefully puts it in the bag, along with a letter from Georgie, a few of his recent poems, and a printed picture of the Admiral.

The tube doesn't stop anywhere too close to his destination, so he spends a while walking. He doesn't look at his watch, barely looks at the streets around him. He lets his legs carry him to a condemned building, blackened and ruined. He lifts up the _do not enter_ cordon and makes his way inside through thick dust and a curious lack of cobwebs. 

The trapdoor is easy enough to open, physically. He makes his way down, and keeps walking.

He slows when he starts seeing remnants of his own presence. A cheap thermos, rolling empty next to the wall. Scraps of faded paper. He'd tried marking his way with chalk, the first few times, but that never worked too well. He has to trust that whatever led him down this far will lead him out again.

( _And if it doesn't?_ Asks a voice in Martin, which Martin shushes. He doesn't have time for those sorts of thoughts.)

He stops when he reaches what may as well be described as a shrine. It's just a bit of rock he found, raised high, so that it seemed sensible to place everything he brought on it. There's books there, which may well be rotting given how long they've been here unmoved, and another thermos. The tea in it has probably turned to sludge by now. Martin should replace it. To do that, though, he'll need to pick it up. Feel the weight of it, likely unchanged since he's set it down here.

Next time.

He sets down everything he's brought with him, and sits down to wait. He'd tried kneeling, a handful of time, in case it made a difference. It didn't, so far as he could tell, which is just as well. Martin's not getting any younger, and neither are his knees.

Time passes. No knowing how long. Not like he could whip his phone out to check, in here. Likely there wouldn't be any reception anyway. He mutters quietly to himself, reciting poetry to keep awake. He's halfway through his patchy memory of The Wasteland when the corridor starts seeming darker. He sits up, heart pounding.

The grey shadow hovers ponderously across the stone floor. Martin scans it - him - _them_ , desperately trying to find some sign. Some spark of recognition. They look the same as every spectre Martin has seen in this place. But he has to believe. He has to.

The spectre moves a little slower when they pass the shrine. Maybe. Or maybe it's just Martin's imagination, projecting hope over grim reality. "I don't know what plant it is," he says, voice quivering. "It'll probably die in these tunnels. No sun, plus I don't imagine you'll be watering it. I should come by next week. Find a sunlamp for it, or something. Rig up--" His voice is swallowed up by a sob. Martin chokes it down. "It’s meant to be some kind of herb, maybe you could recognize it-- Oh. You, you're going. Of course. Goodbye."

He doesn't know how long he sits there. He can't even tell if the spectre was Jon. There were other Archivists roaming these tunnels: they might still be here. There might be no way to tell Jon apart, anymore. There might not be a difference. 

Eventually he picks himself up. He'll be back - not next week, but next month. He'll pick some things that Jon might like, and Georgie will look at him with sorrow and concern. He understands her, he does. But he'd given up once before on believing Jon would come back to him, and look where that had landed him. If he has to keep doing this for the rest of his life, that's a fair price to pay.

(No. It is not fair. None of this is fair. But he'll pay it anyway, because he can't stand to think of the alternative.)

* * *

In the tunnels, there is a small heap of pieces torn out of Martin Blackwood’s hard-wrought joys, and at its top, there is a small plant in a ceramic pot. In the darkness, its leaves droop, and curl up, and brown at the edges.

A shadow whose shape gives the merest suggestion of hands cups them under the plant. 

Deep, deep inside the collapsed tunnels, there is a place where cracks and broken concrete gave way to a single sunbeam lighting the floor, water dripping in from the world above. The shadow hands dissipate in light, as shadows are wont to do, but the plant falls on the floor unscathed.

In the dark beyond the sunbeam, something watches.


End file.
